My trip to New York came at the end of a tumultuous year. It wasn’t a holiday that was wanted, but needed. I couldn’t wait to escape and breathe different air to bring in the New Year.
In early autumn, Canberra’s political and cultural centre takes on a different hue. Even the deep reds and picturesque rustiness of the trees encircling Lake Burley Griffin can’t compete with the vivid glow of the annual Enlighten Festival.
At the beginning of Dylan Thomas’ Under Milk Wood, a voice breaks through the silence: “Time passes. Listen. Time passes”. Such a clever line, if acted properly, really does make time stand still.
In a small village on the outskirts of Cardiff, the past is not quite as it seems. When you walk into this outdoor National History Museum, you’re taken back in time.
The heavy contrast of the Blue Mountains’ haze against the rich ochre of the ancient sandstone escarpments isn’t the only disparity in the Blue Mountains National Park.
I wake up slightly disoriented and quickly tug at the zip. A tepid breeze sifts through the tall trees overhead, casting flecks of sunlight on the leaf-littered forest floor.
Having recently returned from the famous, snow-covered landscapes of Mongolia, Eastern Siberia and Moscow, I wasn’t expecting much. When I heard that Pen-Y Fan had recently succumbed to a spattering of the white stuff, I smirked: “We’ll see”.